


The Prisoner and the Anthropologist

by magician



Series: Final Shot [2]
Category: The Sentinel (TV)
Genre: Angst, Gen, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-15
Updated: 2020-02-15
Packaged: 2021-02-27 10:01:13
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,740
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22415152
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/magician/pseuds/magician
Summary: Years after the events in "Final Shot", we catch up on what's happened to Blair and Kincaid.Happy International Fanworks Day, AO3. You all rock!
Relationships: Jim Ellison & Blair Sandburg
Series: Final Shot [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1634314
Comments: 9
Kudos: 12
Collections: Artifact Storage Room 3





	The Prisoner and the Anthropologist

**Author's Note:**

> This is a sequel to "Final Shot", a story I wrote in 2018 for the Sentinel Big Bang. I'd always wanted to continue it. This year, I submitted a couple of scenes for our TS Chat constructive criticism (concrit) challenge and got invaluable feedback and encouragement that helped get this written. Thank you, ladies! I left the concrit submission, called "Prisionero Desconocido (Unknown Prisoner)" up because I've changed it a bit.
> 
> Also, this is rated Gen because absolutely nothing happens, although there's some discussion about changing things. Does that make this pre-pre-slash? ;^D

The Prisoner and the Anthropologist

For the first week after he arrived at the unknown prison, Kincaid was kept in the same cell. Each time the slot opened for the two daily meals that were shoved through, he tried to talk to the person on the other side of the door, to no avail. The results were the same when his waste bucket was swapped out just before the lights were turned off.  
  
On the seventh day, the door opened and a man with a shotgun stared at him, then gestured with the gun to his left. Kincaid walked slowly, not at all sure he wasn’t going to be summarily executed. They walked to the end of the hallway and the man called out _"Detener"_ , knocked on a closed door, opened it and shoved Kincaid inside.  
  
The man seated at the desk had dark hair and a moustache. It might have been the one who talked to him the first day. It was confirmed when he began speaking. "How are you enjoying your new home?" he asked solemnly, without a trace of sarcasm.  
  
"Why am I here?" Kincaid asked. "Who the hell are you people?"  
  
"Your questions are of no importance. You are a prisoner. As you have seen in the past week, when you do not follow the rules, you face consequences. When you follow them, you may receive privileges."  
  
Kincaid thought about the past week. He'd ranted for hours off and on and received nothing except his meals, which were shoved through the slot. In frustration, he threw his tray against the wall. The next two food trays contained only water. When he got hungry enough, he went over to the corner and picked up the tortilla he'd discarded, scraping some beans into it. They'd also conveniently forgot to empty his waste bucket.  
  
He swallowed hard and asked politely. "I don't understand why I'm here. I didn't get a trial; I haven't seen a lawyer. I think maybe I'm here by mistake."  
  
The man looked at him for a few moments. "I know who you are--who you _were_ in the outside world. You were tried and convicted in absentia. Perhaps, one day, you may be granted the privilege to learn more. For now, you are a number -- Número Cero. You will be referred to as such and answer to it when you are addressed.  
  
"And now, since you have exhibited acceptable behavior, you will be allowed to take a shower." He paused for a few moments. "We believe in civility here. Say 'thank you'."  
  
There were many things he wanted to say other than "thank you", but the temptation of a shower and clean clothes was overwhelming. "Thank you… sir."  
  
The man smiled and nodded. "Dismissed, Cero."  
  
*****  
  
Blair's first meeting with John Glimmerman's nephew, Todd Singleton, had gone surprisingly well. Todd knew he wanted to major in Anthropology and was excited to have a well-known Anthro professor as his faculty advisor.  
  
As his uncle had surmised, Todd was influenced by the romantic idea of traipsing all over the world and learning about different cultures. Digging deeper, Blair found that Todd had done considerable reading on the subject and could explain the differences between the various branches of anthropology. As he wasn't sure which branch he was interested in pursuing, Blair helped him map out his first two years of undergraduate study, got him enrolled in his required classes and gave him suggestions for his electives. The last thing they did before parting was set up future meetings and exchange email addresses.  
  
Blair made a private notation in his diary to contact Todd's uncle at regular intervals.  
  
*****  
  
Since he'd found none of his questions were answered, Kincaid kept his eyes and ears opened and obeyed the rules with feigned sincerity. That got him two showers a week and one hour out of his cell each day, under the watchful eyes of his armed guards.  
  
After the first month, he was visited by a doctor and pronounced fit, but thin. He received larger portions of food after that and was allowed to exercise within the building. While doing calisthenics, he looked around. There was one other metal cell similar to his own, but it had a toilet and sink in one corner, a barred window and a table on which were a few books. He suspected the room he was in was their version of solitary confinement and made a vow to try to get moved to the better cell.  
  
*****  
  
Although Jim thought it was a bad idea for Blair to attend the trials of the various Sunrise Patriots, Blair insisted on going, attending as often as he could. It was with satisfaction that he heard the verdicts. Although many of the men insisted they'd been duped by Kincaid's charismatic rhetoric, the juries were not persuaded.  
  
Blair wrote a victim's statement where he described being held and threatened by the Patriots during the stadium takeover, as had many others. In addition to presenting them to the sentencing judge, many victims chose to make a statement in person, and surviving family members of those who had died spoke of their pain. Blair carefully recorded all the names of those who testified, and those who could not speak for themselves.  
  
*****  
  
Kincaid's apparent acquiescence got him moved to the larger cell. To pass the time, he started flipping through the books, which were all in Spanish, or maybe Portuguese. He tossed the last one on the table. He didn't have an interest in learning another language, especially since he was sure his men would rescue him soon. Instead, he dragged his bed under the window so he could stand on it and look out. In a compound two hundred yards away, he saw about 20 men playing soccer in the yard.  
  
He wondered what kind of behavior would get him moved there.  
  
*****  
  
One thing Blair had not discussed with Mr. Glimmerman was how often and in what manner Blair should keep him updated on Todd's progress. Blair decided to start with an email once per semester. Two weeks after he'd sent his first email, he was surprised to receive an invitation to lunch at the Chop House, an upscale steak house he'd heard Simon mention. He gave his name to the maître d' and was escorted to a private room in the back of the restaurant. Although new laws prohibited smoking inside buildings, he wasn't surprised to see Glimmerman lighting up a cigar.  
  
 _Don't be nervous. You know there's nothing wrong with Todd_ , he thought as he approached the big man. "Mr. Glimmerman, thank you for the invitation. I've been meaning to try this place out. I've heard only good things about it." They shook hands and Blair sat in a large wing chair across from Glimmerman.  
  
"They have the best New York Strip in the city, but there are plenty of other choices. I prefer their duck, but the salmon roasted on a cedar plank is also a good choice." He flicked a finger and the server approached them and poured Blair some red wine from an already opened bottle.  
  
"Is the gentleman ready to order?" the server asked Blair.  
  
"I'll have the salmon, please."  
  
"And your wine?"  
  
Blair sipped from his glass. "I'll stay with the Pinot. It's delicious."  
  
After the server left, Blair said. "We never actually decided on where to meet and how often. Was my message not detailed enough?"  
  
"When things are going well, the messages will be fine. I invited you here to thank you for the advice you've been giving Todd, especially on whether to join a fraternity."  
  
Blair smiled. "I was hoping he would talk to you about it, since through you he would be considered a Legacy and might feel pressured to pledge."  
  
Glimmerman sat back in his chair. "I see you do your homework, Mr. Sandburg. Yes, he did talk to me. He's been talking to me almost non-stop since starting at Rainier and I think I have you to thank for that. He insists on having dinner together once a week and I must admit I've enjoyed our conversations."  
  
Blair smiled. "I find Todd is easy to talk to, perhaps because we have common interests. But right now, as he starts this new phase in his life, he might be feeling the loss of his parents more and so is reaching out. Whatever the reason, I'm happy your relationship is strong."  
  
The server returned with their salads and they talked about inconsequential things while they ate.  
  
  
As he swirled his snifter of cognac, Glimmerman said, "I had another reason for contacting you personally."  
  
"Yes?"  
  
"I read about the convictions and sentences of those others." He slid a piece of paper across the table to Blair. "In case you're interested."  
  
Blair looked at the address, then folded the paper and slipped it into his pocket. "Is there anything I need to know?" he asked.  
  
Glimmerman shook his head. "Everything is going as expected. There were a few adjustment problems, but nothing to be concerned about. This is just in case you wish any contact."  
  
Blair stared at him, wondering if he could read thoughts. "Thank you, but I doubt I'll need it," he replied, then picked up his own snifter and took a long swallow.  
  
*****  
  
He'd lost track of how long he'd been imprisoned before he was moved to the main compound. He was still segregated from the other prisoners--he was in his own cell, in fact on his own floor, but at least he could hear voices. His guards had invariably communicated with him through gestures or, more often, shoving him one way or another. He understood only a few words and cursed himself for not reading the books in his old cell. Being able to speak their language would have been helpful.  
  
Eventually, they allowed him to take his exercise in the compound with the other prisoners. Some were there for a few weeks or a month while others, like himself, seemed to be there permanently.  
  
Although he'd never liked soccer, considering it a "foreign" sport, he recognized it was the social common denominator. He learned the strategies and accepted the fouls committed against him with good grace until eventually they lessened.  
  
As he proved he could conform to the rules, he received more time in the compound and even took lunch with the others occasionally.  
  
*****  
  
In the basement of the Christopher Wallace Memorial Public Library, Blair found current newspapers as well as microfiche of older ones. He printed articles on the ferry boat bombing, as well as the takeover of Central Precinct, the Jags Stadium and the memorial services of the victims of the Sunrise Patriots. It took him some time to look up names and dates and even more time to find pictures.  
  
He knew what he wanted to do but needed some time to figure out how to do it. He couldn't talk to the one person--Jim--who could have best advised him. He picked up his copies and left the library. Maybe there was someone else.  
  
  
"Blair! How good to see you. Come on in." Jack Kelso wheeled from behind his desk to greet his visitor. "To what do I owe this pleasure?"  
  
Blair hesitated, wondering how to start; wondering if it was a bad idea to come here. "Well, to see you, of course. Time has gotten away from me this semester. Do you want to catch some lunch?"  
  
Jack whirled his chair back to his desk, clearing the files off the top of it and locking them in his cabinet. "I was looking for an excuse to get out of here. Let's go down to the docks. There's a new seafood place I've been wanting to try."  
  
  
  
"How can you come to a premiere seafood place and order fish and chips?" Blair asked incredulously.  
  
Jack shrugged. "I'm always trying to recapture the taste of the fish and chips I had at a little shop near Paddington Station in '77."  
  
Blair laughed. "Perhaps it's time you revisit it," he suggested.  
  
"Nah, the owner retired and apparently the son doesn't have the touch. Better to just keep searching." He took a drink of his lager. "So, why'd you really come to see me?" He asked with a smile.  
  
Blair sighed. "I'm not really sure. I wanted to pick your brain about some legal stuff." Jack nodded and Blair continued. "When a prisoner is sentenced, how important is it for him to face his accusers?"  
  
Jack sat back and blew out a breath. "That's a complicated question. If you're talking ethically, it depends on the level of the prisoner's remorse. If he has none, facing his accuser has little or no effect. It might even harden his position that what he did was justified. If he _is_ remorseful, it could help him on his road to redemption. But that's a debate for philosophers."  
  
He took another drink. "Legally, at least in this country, it can make a big difference in the length of the sentence he'll receive. There's a concept called differential punishment, where offenders receive differing punishments depending on various factors. The two main types of factors are offender-facing justifications and victim-facing justifications. The latter proposes the State should consider the interests of the victims in setting punishment. So, things such as the harm done to the victim, how the victim's life has changed as a result of the crime, or even whether the victim seeks vengeance or offers forgiveness to the offender can all be taken into account during the sentencing phase. I can recommend a couple of Law Review papers that explain it in more detail."  
  
Jack stopped talking as their food arrived. He sprinkled malt vinegar on the deep-fried cod filets and took a bite, closing his eyes as he chewed. "Pretty good," he said as he opened his eyes and smiled at Blair.  
  
Blair laughed. "And Cascade weather runs a close second to London's, which should add to the ambience. This sea bass is delicious," he added as he picked up another forkful.  
  
Jack chewed thoughtfully on a fry. "So, did this come up because of the Sunrise Patriots trials?" he asked shrewdly.  
  
"Partly," Blair admitted. "I attended some of them. It just seems like the public trials gave them a platform for spouting their hate--maybe getting some idiots to be sympathetic. I wondered whether it would have been better to hold them behind closed doors, even if it means excluding the victims from the process."  
  
"There's always a chance of a charismatic leader swaying the weak-minded," Jack said. "It's a risk we take to provide transparency to our justice system and protect free speech. In this case, though, without Kincaid, people like McBride and Southern sounded more like parrots than true zealots who could attract followers."  
  
Blair stilled at the unexpected-- _you should have expected this, idiot!_ \--turn in the conversation. "Do you… I mean have you heard what might have happened to Kincaid?"  
  
"Surprisingly, no. Not that I was looking for him, but usually I hear some chatter. There's been nothing since he disappeared from Walla Walla. He was supposedly being transferred to another super-max out of state but disappeared. No one's talking, including the two FBI agents who were planted in the Patriots' organization and helped bring them down. One of my contacts thinks he was quietly assassinated."  
  
"Assassinated," Blair scoffed. "That's a term reserved for the murder of a head of state. If he was killed, I'd liken it more to a mad dog being put down to protect the community."  
  
Jack looked hard at Blair for a second. "I'd forgotten your history with him. I can understand the sentiment, and I don't necessarily disagree." He picked up the check, but Blair plucked it from his hand.  
  
"Let me get this, Jack. The least I owe you is lunch, and this helped a lot."  
  
"Okay, okay," Jack said, raising his hands in surrender. "How about on the way back, you tell me about your new thesis?"  
  
*****  
  
Deciding that drawing marks on his cell wall to count the days was too depressing, Kincaid kept track of the passage of time in two ways: the Sunday bell which called the prisoners to Mass and the tamales that got served for Christmas. Although the cuisine suggested the prison was in Mexico, he knew they could also be in Guatemala. Still, it wasn't so far away from the good old US of A-- he might hope to eventually be freed. The most important thing was to get a message to his men.  
  
He'd been keeping his eyes open and his mouth shut. He saw exchanges between the long-term inmates and the short timers. Drugs, money and messages all changed hands.  
  
*****  
  
To celebrate Todd's first expedition, Blair bought him a Swiss Army knife. "I've had one for years and find it invaluable."  
  
"Wow, thanks, Mr. Sandburg," Todd replied, turning it over in his hands, then slipping it in his pocket.  
  
"Have you finished packing?"  
  
Todd nodded. "I'm hoping the clothes I've got are warm enough. Even in summer I expect Unalaska will be cold."  
  
"Yes, but manageable. You're lucky you're not going during the rainy season," Blair replied. "It actually gets about twice as much rain as Cascade, but almost all of it's in the winter months."  
  
"I wish I was going to study the Xinca in Guatemala," Todd said, with obvious disappointment.  
  
"We've gone over this, Todd," Blair replied. "Uni rules state no expeditions outside the country until you're twenty. Yes," he continued, holding up his hand to forestall Todd's answer, "there are exceptions, but very few and for very specific reasons." He gave him a hard look. "If you're not committed to this project, I can have you taken off the team and you can wait until an assignment to your liking comes along."  
  
"No, _no!"_ Todd answered. "I'm sorry, Mr. Sandburg. I know you put my name in for the Aleut study and I'm grateful." He looked down at his feet. "And here I am acting like a spoiled brat. Please, let's forget I mentioned it. I'm looking forward to my first expedition and I'll make you proud that you recommended me." He held out his hand. "Thank you."  
  
Blair grinned and shook Todd's hand. "You earned the recommendation with your hard work, Todd. I know you'll have a great time. I'll see you next semester."  
  
As he watched Todd walk out of his office, Blair's phone rang. "Hey, Jim. What's up?... I'm just finishing here and heading over to Forensics. … Okay, yeah, I can meet you over there in…" He looked at his watch, "about twenty minutes. I'll call Serena and reschedule. … See you soon." He cleared his desk and headed out to join Jim at their latest crime scene.  
  
*****  
  
Kincaid was as surprised as anyone that he turned out to be a good soccer player. As he learned the strategies and scored more goals, he was often allowed to be the captain of one of the teams. The other prisoners started referring to him as "Jefe Cero", and sometimes just "Jefe", which swelled his pride.  
  
When the next "short timers" arrived, he noticed one of them had been picked as a go-between. He approached the man during a break in their game, slipping him a scrap of paper with McBride's name and address, explaining in rudimentary Spanish that he wanted his second in command to know where he was. The man held out his hand, demanding payment. Kincaid gave him the only thing he had of value--a gold ring. The man nodded and they went back to playing.  
  
Later that evening, he was pulled out of his cell and marched over to the "administration" building. When he walked into the warden's office, two other prisoners were already there, including the go-between. Kincaid's piece of paper and his ring lay on the warden's desk.  
  
He was marched back to his original cell. He winced as the door slammed shut.  
  
*****  
  
Jim had groused about the conference he had to attend in Portland, trying unsuccessfully to get Blair authorized to come with him. Blair commiserated, but was secretly relieved he would be Jim-less for four days.  
  
He spent most of his time riding with other Forensic techs to crime scenes but set aside one day to work on his diss. On that day, he stopped for lunch at the Chop House, making his way to the private room in back. After receiving Glimmerman's blessing, he put his plan into action.  
  
*****  
  
The first envelope came after he'd spent time back in solitary confinement for once again breaking the rules. Who knew how long it had been sitting on the warden's desk? Perhaps they'd waited until he performed penance and conformed like a good little boy before giving it to him. Or perhaps it took them some time to figure out who _"Prisionero Desconocido"_ (Unknown Prisoner) was, since that and the blacked-out prison address were all that was printed on the outside.  
  
Expecting news from Southern or McBride, he tore it open. Inside was a photograph of a man he didn't know, with the date "11-21-74" written across the bottom. He stared at it for a long time, turning it over, feeling the edges, even inspecting the envelope. When he realized it wasn't a coded message of hope, he tore it into little pieces and left it with the other debris on his meal tray.  
  
More envelopes arrived at irregular intervals. He paid attention to the postmarks. Some came from the U.S.; others from countries all over the world. Some, like the first one, contained photos with dates written across the bottoms; others contained only a plain piece of paper with a date printed in permanent marker. Each missive had a different date.  
  
  
After tearing up the first message, he decided to keep the notes, which were his only contact with the outside world. He still didn't know their significance, but realized they were important. He tried in vain to make sense of it--who was sending these to him, and why?  
  
*****  
  
Blair finished filling and sealing the small batch of envelopes, then stuffed them into a larger one addressed to an ashram in Santa Barbara. His mother would pick it up, then mail the individual envelopes during her travels, as she'd done for the past four years. She never questioned him; he knew she'd recognized this was important to him--and that it was a secret.  
  
Over the years, he'd sent the photos of every victim the Sunrise Patriots had murdered. He'd written their birthdates, but no other identifying information. When he didn't have a photo, he sent a paper with the birthdate on it. He half-hoped, with some vindictiveness, that Kincaid had not guessed the significance of the messages--and that it was driving him crazy. The other half hoped Kincaid would connect the dots between the people in the photos and the reason he was rotting in a Central American prison.  
  
He looked at the one remaining photograph. This last picture--the last victim--was of Preston Crawford. Blair expected when he finally sent it even someone as self-absorbed as Kincaid could make the connection.  
  
He put the photo in a large metal box, locked it and put it back in his desk drawer. He slipped the envelope addressed to Naomi into his messenger bag just as he heard Jim enter the loft and call out, "Hey, Doctor Sandburg, shake a leg. You're going to be late to your own graduation!"  
  
He closed the bag and left it beside his desk. Putting on a genuine smile, Blair went out to greet his friend. It was going to be a beautiful day.  
  
*****  
  
He no longer had any idea how many years he'd been here. He'd given up after the last failed attempt to reach the outside world; their crude methods of punishment helped him decide to cooperate with his jailers.  
  
He had a hard time remembering his name--that it wasn't "Cero". Sometimes he didn't talk for days; he didn't say anything unless directly addressed and then his answers were short. His voice grew rusty with disuse.  
  
*****  
  
The ceremony was memorable for more reasons than that he'd never attended any of his other graduations. From his seat, while he waited to take his place on the stage, Blair clapped and hooted for every senior student, but felt particular pride when he saw Todd accept his diploma.  
  
Todd had continued to thrive under Blair's guidance, having gone on two more expeditions while maintaining a 3.9 grade point average. He'd followed his uncle by pledging to Alpha Kappa Psi; its business-orientation would help him in the job market. He'd been accepted into the masters program at the University of Illinois and would have a part-time job at the Field Museum. All in all, Blair felt he'd fulfilled his part of the bargain and helped to mold a good human being. If his conscience twinged a little at his own ethics, he pushed it away for the moment as he rose to follow his fellow doctorate candidates onto the stage.  
  
As he waited to hear his name called, Blair thought back on the past few years.  
  
When he explained his reasons for switching to Forensics Anthropology, Simon looked as relieved as Jim had been. Blair realized Jim's boss must have been walking on eggshells every time Jim's abilities threatened to be exposed. Simon arranged for a paid position with the title of Special Consultant. It included 30 hours per week, giving him enough time to work on his dissertation and Rainier commitments.  
  
Although he was considered a shared resource, he continued to spend most of his time working with Jim. He also spent a lot of time with Serena and they'd become friends. He found forensics interesting, even though his first love would always be Cultural Anthropology. He'd used his budding education to help Homicide solve an unusual case where a skeleton was found in the cornerstone of a demolished building.  
  
For logistical reasons, he was housed in Major Crime and Simon wrote his reviews. As a result, he was even more accepted as part of the MC Unit. After the Homicide case, Simon called him into his office and presented him with a leather messenger bag. His gruff "you need to get rid of that ratty backpack" didn't hide his obvious pride in Blair's accomplishment. Blair smiled when Simon added "don't expect a present every time, Sandburg. Good job."  
  
As he crossed the stage and accepted his diploma, his own cheering squad erupted in applause and shouting. He looked in the direction of the noise and saw Jim, Simon, Henri, Rafe, Joel, Megan, Serena and his mother clapping and smiling. He raised his hands to them and continued across stage, smiling.  
  
Out of the corner of his eye he saw Glimmerman standing at the back of the audience, clapping Todd on the back and catching Blair's eye just before they turned to leave.  
  
*****  
  
Some days, he made a resolution to do more exercise; build up his muscles and take better care of himself. But unending days in the hot, humid climate sapped his strength and his resolve and many days he just slept in his cell.  
  
His fellow prisoners tried to cajole him into group activities; besides soccer and attending Sunday services, they'd recently received a basketball from some charity organization. One man fashioned a hoop and set it at one end of the building. He was energized when they approached him to understand rules and strategies, going back to calling him "Jefe", but he soon lost interest and became merely a spectator.  
  
*****  
  
Blair didn't know what to do. As he stood on the loft's balcony, looking out on the water, the old adage "chickens coming home to roost" kept playing in his head like a broken record. He was so sure he'd done the right thing--how had this happened?  
  
But he knew how it happened. When he'd made his agreement with Glimmerman, he was sure he had the solution to stop Kincaid. He'd enveloped himself in righteousness; after witnessing a system unable to contain the psychopath, he'd decided on a course of action. But the reality was that he'd felt small and vulnerable after his encounters with Kincaid and wanted to feel strong. Talk about fear-based responses.  
  
He'd convinced himself that he was protecting his friends, protecting Jim. He laughed bitterly at his hubris. He'd named himself Shaman of the Great City. Had he thought, back then, that receiving the Way of the Shaman meant he'd inherited Incacha's wisdom? And, even if he did, he lived in a culture that didn't value vigilantism. And that's what he'd become--a vigilante.  
  
He couldn't accept any job in law enforcement. If it was discovered he'd worked outside the law, if he ever had to take a polygraph, he'd be exposed as the fraud he was. On top of that, he'd lied to Jim and to Simon; lied to all his friends in the Department. Lies of omission, yes, but still lies. Now that he had to decide what to do with his life, what could he tell Jim?  
  
As if conjured by magic, Jim walked into the loft. He approached Blair, a puzzled look on his face. "Simon said you turned in your resignation. Why?"  
  
Blair continued to stare out at the ocean. "My job there was part-time and short-term--it kept me with you while I completed the diss. Resigning is a formality. Now that I've got my doctorate, they plan to offer me a full-time position."  
  
"In Forensics?" Blair nodded. "Are you going to take it?"  
  
Blair turned to Jim. "I don't know."  
  
"But this is what you've been working for." He looked at Blair's face. "Isn't it?"  
  
"No, Jim," Blair said, his voice strained. "What I was working for--what I _wanted_ \--was to find a sentinel and complete my degree in Cultural Anthropology." He sighed. "I couldn't go on being ABD forever. I needed to get my degree and doing it in Forensics kept me working with you. But now that I've got it… well, with the new position we wouldn't be working together. I don't know if I can go down this path--I don't know whether I want to."  
  
He walked in from the balcony and closed the doors. "Jim, I've been going at breakneck speed my whole life and these years with you have been wonderful, but they haven't allowed a lot of time for reflection." He looked at Jim, who was staring at him silently with a mix of emotions he couldn't fathom. Anger? Shock? Disappointment?  
  
Suddenly, Blair felt tired. And trapped. He was tempted to walk out the door, but instead sat on the couch, his face in his hands, rubbing his eyes. "I need time to think and to make decisions. Big, grown-up decisions like where I'll work, where I'll live--"  
  
"Wait, you're moving out?"  
  
Blair looked up at Jim. "I know we joked about the one week thing, but, really, with my degree, any job I get will command a good salary and it's more than time I stopped living like a starving student one step away from couch-surfing. You deserve your privacy and, frankly, so do I."  
  
Jim turned away abruptly and opened the door to the balcony, taking his turn looking out at the horizon.  
  
Blair got up and walked over. "I'm going away for a while," he said, watching Jim's shoulders stiffen. "Not forever; not even for long. But I need some time to figure my life out. If I don't, if I just take this job because it's expected of me, I'm going to resent it. I can move all my stuff to a storage facility--"  
  
"Leave everything here," Jim said without turning around. "As you say, you won't be gone long."  
  
Blair nodded, even though Jim couldn't see him. "I'm going to St. Sebastian's first, then I might visit Naomi… I don't know."  
  
"When do you leave?"  
  
"Tomorrow, I think."  
  
"The sooner, the better, eh?" Did Jim's voice sound a touch bitter?  
  
"The sooner I go, the sooner I'll come back."  
  
Jim turned around and gave him a long look. "I'll be here."  
  
*****  
  
Blair pulled out his old backpack and a duffel bag, filled them with his traveling essentials and looked around, taking in all the touches that made this place a home for him. The only thing missing--the most essential thing--was Jim. He thought about their conversation, or lack thereof, from the night before.  
  
It didn't go at all as he expected. He thought Jim would be angry, defensive, disappointed… something negative. Instead, Jim had said almost nothing, seeming to accept what Blair was saying. Did that mean he recognized that their time of living in each other's pockets was over? That it was a good thing for them to lead separate lives? He really didn't know.  
  
But Jim kept looking at him. Like he wanted to say something, something important, but he was stopping himself. Was he not saying something because he agreed with Blair, or that he didn't, but didn't want to influence him? As Blair thought back on those looks, he thought there might have been a touch of longing in them. And when Jim hugged him with a "Take care of yourself, Chief," was it a little tighter, a little longer, than usual? Was Blair reading into it, or could he believe that there was a spark there, a spark of something Blair wouldn't mind developing into something more?  
  
And that just depressed him. If there was a chance for something more than friendship to grow between them, he'd fucked it up. How could he tell Jim what he'd done? What would Jim think of him? Blair didn't think he could handle it if Jim looked at him with disappointment or, worse, horror that Blair had taken the law into his own hands. Sure, Jim sometimes skated the edges of the law, but he'd never think of doing something so outrageous. No, he couldn't take the chance.  
  
As an afterthought, Blair went into his bottom desk drawer and took out the locked metal box. He stuffed it in his duffel, hoisted his backpack on his shoulder, and walked out of the loft.  
  
*****  
  
He wondered what he'd done to earn punishment as he was marched to the administration building. Instead of the cell, he was ushered into the medical room, where a doctor was waiting, the same one who'd been there when he first arrived. He was given a thorough examination and asked many questions, which he answered with short responses in his rusty voice. The doctor wrote some notes, then opened the door. The warden entered.  
  
The doctor spoke in English. "This man's body is strong, but his mind is weak."  
  
"I'm not weak!" he protested, although his voice belied the statement.  
  
"Not a weakness of will," the doctor answered. "You're suffering from depression; a weakness of the spirit. It's quite common with prisoners. I'm prescribing fluoxetine, which in your country is called Prozac. It should help raise your mood. It will be administered to you in the proper dose."  
  
The door opened and he was marched back to the main compound.  
  
He took the medication every morning and after a week he noticed his mood lifting. After two weeks, however, he started experiencing mild nausea. Taking the Prozac with food didn't seem to make any difference. He decided to fake taking it, sticking it in his cheek and removing it after the guard moved on. He opened the capsule and dumped the powder on the cell floor, scuffing it into the dirt, then swallowing the empty capsule.  
  
He made more of an effort to join in with the other prisoners and they left him alone.  
  
*****  
  
"Thank you for meeting me here on such short notice," Blair said.  
  
Glimmerman smiled, "It's always a pleasure to hear from you, Mr. Sandburg," he said, gesturing for the server to pour Blair some wine.  
  
Blair put his hand over his glass. "Thank you, no, I have a long drive ahead of me." He turned to the server. "Iced tea, please, with lemon."  
  
As the server left, Blair turned back to Glimmerman. "I understand Todd is settling in well."  
  
"He is. I'm going out to visit him next month so he can show me around."  
  
"You've never been to Chicago?" Blair asked with surprise.  
  
Glimmerman shrugged. "Never for pleasure." He took a sip of wine. "So, what's the subject today?"  
  
Blair studied the tablecloth, tracing the pattern with his finger. "I think I need to change our arrangement."  
  
"Ah. I expected this would happen eventually. So, what's your pleasure?"  
  
The server chose that moment to enter, bringing Blair's tea. Glimmerman waved him away, and he bowed and left. Blair looked at this man, this powerful man with whom he'd made a dangerous contract. This man who looked no more menacing than his truck-driver uncle; this man who was giving him a placid smile. "I don't know yet. I'm going away to figure it out. I won't take long--I know with Todd finished up this shouldn't continue to be your problem."  
  
"Mr. Sandburg, what you did for Todd exceeded my expectations. That buys you a lot of leverage. Take your time; after all, it's not costing me much. We can keep the status quo until you know what you want." He pulled out his cigar case and opened it, then closed it with a snap. "I promised Todd I would start taking better care of myself."  
  
Blair grinned. "I thought you looked like you'd dropped a few pounds." He picked up his tea. "L'chaim," he toasted.  
  
*****  
  
"That's quite a burden you've been carrying, all on your own," Marcus remarked after Blair told him the whole story.  
  
Blair took a big breath and blew it out. "Yeah." They were sitting in the kitchen at St. Sebastian's, drinking tea. "I can't believe I screwed up so badly. What was I thinking?"  
  
Marcus got up and went over to the pantry, pulling out the fixings to make oatmeal. He put a pot of water on to boil. "You were thinking that a monster who threatened you and the people you loved, who seemingly could not be held accountable for his actions, needed to be stopped. You were thinking that our system of justice was broken and that he was an imminent danger. You were scared and angry at this miscarriage of justice." He sprinkled the oatmeal over the boiling water, stirring. "What are you going to do about him?"  
  
"The rest of the Sunrise Patriots have been tried and convicted, so there's no one left who could break him out like they did before. His top guys are on Death Row and almost everyone else involved with the ferry boat bombing, the precinct takeover or the Cascade Arena have been given life sentences. What's more, the FBI infiltrated the group, so he's facing Federal charges as well. I think if he suddenly shows up, he'd go to trial and be convicted pretty quickly."  
  
Marcus poured two bowls and brought them to the table. He brought brown sugar and cinnamon from the counter and pushed them toward Blair, who sprinkled some of each on his oatmeal. Marcus then shook some cinnamon over his own bowl and stirred it in. "So, you've got to get him back into the country and in the hands of law enforcement and then he's off your hands?"  
  
Blair snorted, "Yeah, that's all. Actually, getting him back here is probably the easiest thing to accomplish. I've got the plan pretty well worked out."  
  
"That's good, that's good. Now, what about your career? Have you decided what you want to do?"  
  
"The position at Cascade PD is mine if I want it. I'd head the Forensics Department--ironically, it's the job Jim's ex-wife had. Rainier's offered me a full professorship with all the trappings. The Head of Anthropology wants to retire in a year, so I'd be on the fast track to take over. I've had offers from a few out of state universities. Outside of academia, I've been offered a position at the Washington Association of Professional Anthropologists. They're based in DC, but they are amenable to my working anywhere in the country and just coming into the Center for meetings and gatherings. I could head their Northwest satellite."  
  
"An embarrassment of riches," Marcus remarked. "Although you seem to perk up when you talk about that last one."  
  
"Oh, Marcus," Blair said with a sigh. "There's so much to like about WAPA. They've been working on things like preserving languages, the role of anthropologists in war zones, and mentoring programs to help build careers in anthropology. They've been around since the '70s and have a rich and diverse membership. But it would mean a lot of travel; I might need to relocate. I've loved Rainier since I was sixteen and it's still one of the country's premiere Anthro schools. I'd have a lot more power and stability and I'm familiar with their infrastructure. Pretty much everyone except the Dean likes and respects me, so there'd be no break-in period. As for the other universities, I've got a good enough reputation that I could fit in at any of them."  
  
"And the PD offer?" Marcus asked gently.  
  
Blair stared at his oatmeal, stirring it listlessly. "It's a prestigious job and the money and benefits would be great." He sighed. "But my heart isn't in it. The only reason I'm associated with the PD at all is because of Jim. If I take the job, we'd work together occasionally, but nothing like before when we were practically partners. And, besides, with what I've done, well, it would always be hanging over my head. It's possible I'd have to take a polygraph to get the job. Even if I didn't, there's always a chance that it could come out anyway, that I'd been hiding this big, fat, illegal thing." He sat back in his chair, looking dejected.  
  
"You know, you're going to hurt my feelings If you don't eat this wonderful repast I've made," Marcus said with a gentle smile. Blair, appreciating the change of subject, picked up his spoon and started eating.  
  
Marcus broke the silence with another question. "Not to be indelicate, but will Jim be able to function without your being with him?"  
  
Blair stared at him in astonishment. "What do you mean?"  
  
Marcus waved his hand at Blair. "Oh, come on, Blair. I'm cloistered; not blind or stupid. You used to talk about your sensory studies all the time. You didn't mention it at all when you came here with Jim. I listened and observed. The only way riding with him made sense was if you were studying him. When he was working to discover the killer, I'm afraid he wasn't as careful as he could have been in using his gifts. Not that I'm not grateful, since he saved my life and those of our brothers."  
  
"Wow," Blair said, "I didn't realize. That was so many years ago and he was still getting the hang of things. But, yeah, he can function just fine with or without me. In fact, I'm thinking of moving out." When Marcus said nothing, Blair asked, "What? … Marcus, what?"  
  
"Blair, when you two were here, there seemed to be something between you. I thought, after all these years, you would be a couple. After all, it's been seven years and you're still living together." He shrugged. "It seemed logical. Are you saying you've never thought of this, you've never broached the subject?" His eyes widened. "Oh, are you straight? I always had the impression you were bisexual."  
  
"I am," Blair said, "But Jim's not. At least, he's never given me any indication. He goes out with women--tall, powerful women, usually redheads." Blair thought about the looks Jim had given him and then thought back. There'd been rumors at the PD about them, much of it because they touched each other a lot. He'd always assumed it was a sentinel thing. "But, why wouldn't he tell me?"  
  
"Why didn't you tell him?"  
  
Blair looked down at his hands. "I always felt I was in a one-down position. Marcus, in the beginning, he didn't want me--he wanted his senses, these incredible gifts, to be gone. He tolerated me because I was the only person who understood his situation. Every time they didn't work, he got pissed, usually at me. I was dependent on Jim's good graces for my thesis, hell, even for a place to live. Every time it seemed like we were on an even keel, we had another crisis. I was just afraid that if I went there that I'd be out on my butt, out of gas on my thesis and I'd lose the best friend I ever had." He looked up. "Does that make sense?"  
  
"It does, indeed," Marcus answered. He stroked his beard for a few minutes. "Is it possible Jim felt _he_ was in the one-down position?" At Blair's quizzical look, he continued. "Apparently you were the only expert on his condition. _You_ helped him figure things out, _you_ helped explain things so he could understand. You even got a ride-along pass so you could help him on the job." Blair nodded. "Well, if he took a chance telling you his feelings and you were repelled, you could leave. You could have changed your thesis subject, moved out, stopped the ride-along, could have even left Cascade and started again at another college. But he would still have this thing, what you call a gift and what he probably thinks is a curse, and no one to help him." Marcus sighed. "It's only a guess."  
  
"No, it makes a lot of sense," Blair answered. "We're both letting fear rule us. I actually accused him of acting out of fear, but I was just as guilty." He sighed. "It doesn't matter anyway, because we'll never have a relationship. This great big elephant that he doesn't even know is in the room will prevent it. I can't keep something this huge a secret from him. I could never justify it to him."  
  
"You believe Jim has never done anything wrong or shameful in his life? That he doesn't know someone who has? That he couldn't understand why you did this? Do you believe you are unforgivable?"  
  
"I already told you," Blair said, an edge of anger in his voice, "he'd never understand, and it would break us."  
  
Marcus shook his head sadly. "I can see how he might be angry at being kept in the dark all this time. But if you think this would break what you have with Jim, I can't see how it's much of a relationship."  
  
Blair shook his head but didn't say anything.  
  
"Blair, everything has consequences. Telling Jim will have consequences; not telling him has had consequences and right now they're eating you up. I think you're misjudging Jim's depth of feeling for you, either as a friend or more. You've come all this way to have peace and quiet to think. Perhaps that is what you should do." Marcus picked up the two bowls and placed them in the sink. "You can stay as long as you like. I'll be here if you want to talk." He opened his arms and embraced his troubled young friend.  
  
*****  
  
Two days later, Blair said his goodbyes to the monks and Brother Michael drove the Monastery bus out to Blair's parked car. Although he now regularly carried a cell, Blair decided to find a pay phone. He called the number he'd only called twice before.  
  
It took him nearly twenty minutes to set up arrangements to his satisfaction. After he was done, he drove to Sea-Tac airport and parked in the long-term lot. He waited on standby for a flight to Santa Barbara, then used buses to get to the Kriya Yoga Ashram.  
  
Since Jim thought he was at St. Sebastian's, where phones weren't allowed, he didn't feel it necessary to call him.  
  
*****  
  
The six-hour trip to Mexico City, three-hour layover and the two-hour flight to Cobán did nothing to tire him; on the contrary, every minute just energized Blair. He'd gone over his plan again and again and finally decided a couple of shots of tequila was what he needed to relax his jittery mind. When he deplaned in Cobán, he gave a small smile. The man waiting for him had the name "Glimmerman" printed on the cardboard he held. Blair wasn't at all surprised when the man approached him; he expected the man had seen his picture.  
  
"Senor Glimmerman," he said with a smile, "I'm Alejandro. You have something for me?"  
  
Blair opened his duffel bag and removed the large envelope with "Prisionero Desconocido" printed on it, then a single sheet of paper.  
  
Alejandro took them both. "He'll receive the envelope today. Two days, three at the most, the rest of it."  
  
Blair nodded. "Thank you."  
  
"Are you interested in traveling there with me? You can see the place."  
  
The question was unexpected, but compelling. Blair nodded. "I don't leave until early tomorrow." He picked up his duffel and followed the man out to his Jeep.  
  
They arrived just after noon as the prisoners were exercising in the yard. Alejandro stopped the Jeep on a hill overlooking the compound and handed Blair binoculars. It took only moments to find his subject; the red hair was a giveaway. Kincaid looked considerably older than when Blair saw him last. Older and smaller. In his present state of mind, it didn't really bring Blair much comfort. He handed the glasses back to Alejandro and they drove closer to the prison. Blair stayed in the Jeep while Alejandro delivered the envelope, then they headed back to Cobán.  
  
  
"This was delicious," Blair said, sitting back and finishing his beer. "I didn't realize I was so hungry."  
  
"My sister-in-law owns the place. When I eat here, it like eating at Mom's."  
  
"No wonder it's crowded." Blair caught their server's eye and indicated two more drinks. "Hey, I know you get paid, but I'd like to give you something extra, if you're not offended." He pushed an envelope toward Alejandro, who pushed it back.  
  
"I'm paid very well, and I'm already getting extra for this little job. It will be a pleasure to carry things out--I'm looking forward to the trip."  
  
"Can't I at least buy you your favorite drink?" Blair pointed at the man's glass. "A bottle of Guaro? A case of Dorado?"  
  
Alejandro smiled. "There's something I can't get down here." Blair nodded encouragement. "Wyoming Outryder Whiskey."  
  
"You're joking! Give me an address of where to send it."  
  
"Just drop it off with Michelle at Glimmerman's. I'll get it from her after the job is done."  
  
"There's a local liquor store in Cascade that stocks it. It'll be my first stop when I get back." Blair put out his hand. "Thank you."  
  
They shook hands. "This will be a pleasure. If you're not too tired," Alejandro added, "there's some live music tonight at a little cantina not far from here."  
  
Blair grinned, "I can sleep when I'm dead. Let's go!"  
  
*****  
  
The envelope was different from the others. It was larger--large enough to hold a full sheet of paper without having to fold it--and it was thicker, too. He ripped it open eagerly and pulled out the contents. What he saw made him drop everything. Staring out at him was a large, glossy Jags publicity shot of Preston Crawford with the date 12-17-1944 written on the bottom. Quickly calculating, he guessed it was Crawford's birthday.  
  
He pulled out all the other pictures he'd received. Four were of men who looked clean-cut, as if they were military--or police. Only one of the faces looked vaguely familiar; he could have been one of the cops executed during the Central Precinct takeover. As he looked through the rest of the things he'd received since waking up in this miserable prison, he finally understood the message.  
  
He threw them on the floor, then bent to pick up the rest of the envelope's contents. There were Xeroxed copies of a dozen newspaper clippings, all covering the trials of the Sunrise Patriots. McBride, Southern, Walters, Nolan--all had received the death penalty. Alton, Morrison and the others were serving one or more life sentences. Even hangers-on, like that sap Richie Berman, received five to ten. No wonder he was still stuck in this hell hole. None of his men were coming to rescue him.  
  
The last item was an older copy of "Law Enforcement Bulletin magazine", published by the FBI. He opened it to a detailed article about the breakup of the Patriots. Of course, they described his group in the worst possible light, calling them domestic terrorists. Well, he supposed, every little dust-up between law enforcement and patriotic citizens practicing their God-given rights could be classified as terrorism by a corrupt government.  
  
He flipped through the pages, angered to learn the FBI had infiltrated his organization. He figured he'd face the same charges as his men if he ever got back to the U.S., but he was surprised to read the Feds planned to prosecute him under the Anti-Terrorism and Effective Death Penalty Act of 1996. The article concluded by implying he was a coward for going on the run and leaving his men to take the fall.  
On the following page was a copy of the "Most Wanted" poster they'd issued for his capture.  
  
He threw the magazine against the cell wall and let out a scream, quickly bringing the guard. He waved him away, saying "nada, nada," and sat down on his cot, putting his head in his hands.  
  
*****  
  
Blair made stops at Liquor Paradise and Glimmerman's office (bringing a thank you bouquet to Michelle as well as the bottles of Outryder). Glimmerman was apparently out of state, and Blair tried to remember whether he might be visiting Todd.  
  
His third stop was to his office at Rainier. He checked his mail, then walked over to the gymnasium and took a shower, afterwards putting on clean clothes. The last thing he wanted was for Jim to smell something unusual on him that would bring up questions. He stuffed his mail in his duffel with his dirty laundry and headed back to the loft.  
  
To home, he hoped. It worried him a little that Jim had left no messages on his phone. He was hoping it was simply Jim respecting his privacy and not because of a darker reason. He had so much to tell Jim and was afraid he would screw it up trying to get it all out. Well, screw it up more than it already was.  
  
*****  
  
The FBI Resident Agency of Browning, Montana covered activity over three counties, but it was nestled in the heart of the Blackfeet Indian Reservation. Special Agent Ahanu Cold Wind sometimes had the luxury of working with other agents in the regional offices, but more often he relied on support from the Reservation Police. After he received a surprise call this morning, he'd made a few calls of his own, then waited outside the Federal Building where the RA was housed. He watched as an old blue-and-white pickup truck approached slowly and parked. He smiled when the tall man got out from behind the driver's seat.  
  
"Chogan," Ahanu greeted, walking over to greet Lt. Chogan Crowfoot of the Reservation Police Department. "I'm still having a hard time believing your call. What the hell happened?"  
  
"Ahanu, do you remember Faye Hungry Wolf?" He indicated the woman who emerged from the passenger seat and walked up to join them. "It's her story to tell."  
  
"Of course, I remember," Ahanu replied. "I haven’t seen you much since you came back from college. Veterinary Medicine, right?"  
  
"Yes," Faye nodded and shook his hand. "I'm back for good and just about ready to set up practice."  
  
"So, tell me what happened."  
  
"I was bedding down the horses in my stable when I heard a car horn blowing. I went outside and could see a truck on the old frontage road. It revved up and then sped away. I rode out there and saw something in a ditch. I found this white man all trussed up and unconscious. I checked him; he was breathing and had a strong pulse. I couldn't see any wounds. He had that paper pinned to his chest. When I read it, I rode back to the house and called Chogan."  
  
Crowfoot continued. "I untied him and put cuffs on instead. We took him to Faye's place, gave him water and food and took turns watching him until morning. I called you when the office opened. He hasn't said a word." He shrugged and handed the paper to Ahanu. He went to the truck bed where the man in question was laying under a blanket, each wrist was cuffed to a corner of the bed. Ahanu held up the paper, which read:  
  
Wanted by the FBI  
Garrett Michael Kincaid  
Reward offered for information leading to the arrest and/or conviction of Garrett Kincaid, currently a fugitive. Wanted for acts of murder, mayhem and terrorism. Suspect is considered extremely dangerous. Do not attempt to approach him. Contact your local police or FBI office.

  
Ahanu looked at the scruffy, skinny man who bore little resemblance to the picture. He compared the features that don't change--placement and color of the eyes, shape of the ears, jawline--and was sure this was Kincaid. The man stared at him, saying nothing. "Mr. Kincaid, I'm Special Agent Ahanu Cold Wind of the FBI. I'm arresting you on suspicion of acts of terrorism. We'll take you into our office here, read you your rights and then get you checked out by a doctor. Do you understand me?"  
  
Kincaid still said nothing. Ahanu turned back to the others. "Faye, it will take verification, but he looks like real deal. That reward should be substantial; I'll bet enough for a modern vet hospital."  
  
Faye grinned. "Well, the Res sure could use it." She looked toward the truck bed and shook her head. "I looked him up on 'net last night. He ran everyone ragged for a long time. He has to be smart."  
  
"Yeah, a shame he made such dumb-ass decisions," Chogan added, as he pulled out his handcuff keys and started to unload his cargo.  
  
  
*****  
  
Blair arrived to an empty loft. He went to his room to drop his backpack and duffel, a little relieved that it looked exactly as he'd left it. _Idiot, did you think Jim would just pack you up?_ he chided himself, but memories of the Alex fiasco reminded him what Jim was capable of. _Stop it--this is just your fear talking._ He left his room and headed to the kitchen. The fridge didn't have much in it--a few Tupperware containers and a six-pack. Looking at the clock, he estimated he had a few hours until Jim's usual arrival time and decided to go shopping. At least making dinner would keep him occupied.  
  
Jim walked in the door at half past six, while Blair was tossing a salad. The smile Jim had, that full beam smile he showed when he was really happy, made Blair's heart melt.  
  
"Chief, you're back! Why didn't you call me," he said as he walked over to Blair and enveloped him in a hug. "Are you okay?"  
  
"Yeah, I'm okay. I didn't want to bug you in case you were in the middle of something. What about you? How's everyone at work? I didn't hear from you, so I was hoping everything was all right."  
  
Jim went to the fridge and pulled out two beers, opening the bottles and handing one to Blair. "Just the usual: get cases, solve them, listen to H and Rafe bicker over who does what. When you left, it sounded like you needed some thinking time. I didn't want to influence you." He took a long swig and swallowed. "Did you find your answers?"  
  
"Mostly," Blair answered, buying time by taking a drink himself. "Why don't we have dinner and then talk about it?" He pulled out a roast chicken. "Did you want a shower? The biscuits still need a few minutes."  
  
"Yeah," Jim said. Did Blair hear a little strain in the answer? He watched as Jim climbed the stairs to get some clothes.  
  
By unspoken agreement, they kept dinner conversation light. Blair caught Jim up on the doings at the monastery and Jim talked about his cases and having lunch with Steven at the racetrack.  
  
"Dinner was great. I missed your cooking," Jim said as he washed dishes and Blair put away the leftovers.  
  
"Yeah, I kind of missed this myself," Blair admitted. He put the food away and pulled out two more beers. He led them to the living room and sat down on the couch, Jim beside him, sitting close. Somehow, it seemed easier not to look at Jim directly. Leaning against him was better.  
  
"I'm sorry, Jim, I've decided not to take the PD job. It's just not right for me."  
  
Jim gave him an almost playful shove with his shoulder. "Yeah, I figured. I looked at what you'd be doing--hell, you'd be taking Caro's old job. Honestly, that was weird enough. But when I remembered what she had to do, well, I know that isn't really your cup of tea."  
  
Blair nodded. "I'd have taken it anyway, if it meant we could continue together like before. The only way that would happen is if I became a detective myself. By the time I work my way up through the ranks, you'd be practically ready for retirement."  
  
"Hey, I ain't that old, Junior," Jim growled.  
  
"You know what I mean," Blair said, shoving him back. "I've loved our time together, but it was always supposed to be short-term. You get the senses under control and I get my degree. It was kind of long and winding, but we got there." He took a long drink. "I just didn't expect I'd get a good friend out of the deal. That was a bonus. A big one." He reached out to clink Jim's bottle.  
  
"A friend was the last thing I was looking for when I came to your office," Jim agreed. "So, if you don't want Caro's old job, what'll you do? Going to stay at Rainier?"  
  
Blair shrugged. "They've offered but, you know, it's the same old same old. Edwards still hasn't forgiven me for the Ventriss thing. Everyone else is in my corner, but…"  
  
"When Mama's not happy, ain't no one happy."  
  
"Yeah. I've had an offer from a private organization. It's the Washington Association of Professional Anthropologists, WAPA for short."  
  
"Hey, didn't you submit a paper for them a couple of years ago?"  
  
"Yeah," Blair asked, surprised Jim remembered. "I've actually contributed quite a few articles. I guess that's why I'm getting the offer. Eli Stoddard was a regional head for a while. They must have asked him about me. Anyway, they do a lot of good work and the subjects are fascinating. I could be happy with them. The only problem is they're based in DC."  
  
"You'd have to move there?"  
  
"Maybe not. I could be involved regionally, like Eli was, and just attend national functions. But I might want to lead some studies. It could take me away."  
  
"And you still want to move out?"  
  
Blair sighed. "I think it's time, don't you?"  
  
Jim put his beer down on the coffee table and turned to face Blair. "No." He put up a hand as Blair opened his mouth. "Please, let me get this out." Blair nodded and sat back. "You hit the nail on the head. This road has been long and it went places probably neither of us expected. I sure wasn't expecting to actually appreciate these crazy senses--hell, you know half the time I was trying to get rid of them. But I know now they're a gift and that's because of you. And having you as a friend, a friend even when I pushed you away, even when I doubted you, even when it just about cost you your life, it's been like nothing I've ever had."  
  
Jim took a deep breath and let it out. "When you mentioned moving out, I was pissed that you wanted to leave, even though what you were saying was perfectly reasonable. You don't see a lot of men our ages as roommates. After you left, I had time to do my own thinking. I realized that I didn't want you to leave because I want you to stay." Blair gave him a puzzled frown. "I want you to stay with me forever--I want us to be more than friends. I want us to be permanent. If you want to, that is. And if you do, we can move to someplace bigger. And if you do and you need to move to DC, well, they have police departments there and Simon will give me a good recommendation. And if you do, we can work out the details to make us a happily ever after." Jim took another deep breath and let it out. "So, I just wanted to put that out there." At Blair's continued silence, he added, "Come on, Blair, don't leave me hanging here. Say something."  
  
"I don't know what to say."  
  
"I know you're bi--is it that you're not interested in me?"  
  
"Jim, I know I'm bi. I didn't know _you_ were. I've never seen you date anyone but women. Tall, leggy women. I've never even seen you looking at men. No remarks, not one hint. And how did you know I was bi? I haven't dated men since I've known you."  
  
Jim colored a little. "The way you smell. You get kind of excited when you're sexually attracted. I smelled it when you were around women, but also a few men." He looked away. "But not around me. I get it."  
  
"Jim, first of all, I'm not the sentinel here. I couldn't smell you or see or hear _anything_ that indicated you wanted me. Second, I never thought I had a shot with you, so I didn't pursue it. And third, even if I thought I did, our relationship was already so complicated." He shook his head. "In other circumstances, I would have looked at you differently."  
  
"And now?"  
  
"And now, things are even more complicated."  
  
"How? I'm not your thesis subject, so we're not breaking some kind of academic taboo. We're not going to be working together, so we don't have to worry about fraternization. We're not dependent on each other where one or the other would feel obligated. What's complicated?"  
  
"More than you know. Listen, Jim, I've got something to tell you." Just then, Jim's phone rang, causing them both to jump. "Don't answer it," Blair said.  
  
Jim looked at his phone display. "Shit, it's Simon." There was no question Jim would answer it. "Yeah, Simon. … What?... When? … What the hell happened?" Jim listened for long minutes.  
  
Not for the first time, Blair wished he had Jim's sense of hearing. He hoped Simon had just called about a case but knew inside this was the call he'd been dreading. Jim's voice pulled him out of his thoughts.  
  
"Yeah, I'll get everything we have out of cold storage. … Okay, I'll tell him. … Bye." Jim turned to Blair. "You're not going to believe this."  
  
"What is it?"  
  
"After all these years, the FBI caught Kincaid." When Blair said nothing, he continued. "He showed up in Montana. The Feds have charged him with terrorism, but they're willing to turn him over to us since we've got the stronger claim and convicted all the other Patriots. He'll be transferred here next week."  
  
"Did they say where he's been?" Blair asked.  
  
Jim shook his head. "Apparently he's not talking. Probably wants to get lawyered up. We'll find out more once he's transferred. In the meantime, we'll pull all the evidence so the D.A. can start getting ready for trial." He put down his phone and sat on the coffee table directly across from Blair. "Now, where were we?" he asked with a tentative smile.  
  
Blair expected Jim could hear his heart hammering but probably assumed it was the news about Kincaid. Well, it was, but not in the way Jim thought. "Look, Jim, I've been wondering about where our relationship is going, too. Before I went away, I got the feeling you might want something more. Although I've never been much for permanent, I think I could do it with the right person--with you." He saw Jim's smile get warmer and cursed himself for what he had to say next. "But, before we can go in that direction, I've got something to tell you." Jim nodded. "It's something big, a secret I've been keeping from you, well, from everyone. It's something that could change everything for us."  
  
He swallowed hard. "When I tell you, you might not want to have anything to do with me, and I won't try to change your mind if that's what you want. I'll move out, move away, whatever you need me to do."  
  
At Blair's remarks, Jim's face changed from smiling to solemn to a confused frown. "Blair," he said, "I can't imagine there's anything you have done or could do that would make me want you to go away. We went through this with Alex--I would never throw you out again." Blair opened his mouth, but Jim put up his hand. "And whether or not we take the next step in our relationship, I'd never want to lose what we have."  
  
Blair shook his head sadly. "I won't hold you to that." He took a deep breath and let it out. "The only thing I can offer in my defense is that I was angry and scared--really scared--and wasn't thinking things through. It started four years ago, when we were working on the Harry Conkle case…"

  
  
The end

**Author's Note:**

> WAPA actually exists. The Washington Association of Professional Anthropologists (WAPA) is one of the oldest and largest regional organizations of professional anthropologists in the world today. Founded in 1976, WAPA serves as a professional and social resource, and a career development center for anthropologists seeking to apply their knowledge and skills to practical problems for the betterment of society.


End file.
